


sussudio

by thefudge



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Psycho AU, Cunnilingus, Dark, Dark!Five, Explicit Language, F/M, Power Dynamics, Psychopaths In Love, five if he was patrick bateman, heed the tags kids, like...srsly dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26656123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: American Psycho AU, or what if Five was Patrick Bateman?"He doesn’t know who exactly is eating whom, and maybe that’s the point about power."
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	sussudio

**Author's Note:**

> so. maybe me and three other people from my inner circle will fuck with this. but this AU just begged to be written. so, yeah....  
> anyone who has seen the movie will probably recognize a bunch of references and callbacks, and if you haven't...well, you're in for a very, very weird treat. but heed the tags.
> 
> P.S. in this AU they're not 'siblings' because they weren't raised together by Reginald, and that makes me wonder how Vanya would've reacted to Five if she'd not known him as a kid.

The pool is filled with upturned bodies.

Five plops down on the burger-shaped float and downs the dry glass of martini.

The city lights twinkle in the distance. Is that LA? Fuck if he knows.

This should feel like something. But it doesn’t.

It’s just kind of boring. A big walloping nothing of a murder spree.

And he’s supposed to be on a break.

So much for that.

The downtime is hard.

After decades of maiming and killing, Five hates taking a break.

It’s when he’s forced to lay low and smell the roses that he spirals. That’s when he has time to _think_ and parcel out the regrets. Or lack thereof. He doesn’t want to reflect on what he’s become, which is a well-oiled killing machine.

Easier to grab his axe and let it think for him.

So that’s what he does.

The walls seem to pulse with a cacophony of techno beats. The club is packed with sweaty people.

Five pops into the men’s toilets.

His target is taking a very long, drunken pee. Some of it gets on his trousers and the floor.

Five wrinkles his nose. This whole place is crawling with vermin. He hates all of them, but he’s also deeply fascinated by the way they just carry on living, in spite of their filth.

Well, he’s going to paint the club red, ha.

Funny thing is, when he plunges the axe in the asshole’s neck, the guy’s hands shoot up on reflex and he catches his own head.

He has to remember to tell the Handler that story.

He hears a small squeak coming from a bathroom stall.

_Uh-oh._

That didn’t sound like a mouse.

Five cocks his head to the side. He whistles. “Well, looks like I’m having seconds.”

Yeah, fine. The Commission is okay with him getting in an extra-kill now and then, especially if the victim is a potential witness. It’s just cleaner that way.

He ought to know.

Five scrubs his flesh pink.

He stands under the scalding water and admires his own lean physique, his cleanliness, his ability to shed all of this like so much dead skin.

He stares at his hands, his elongated fingers, poised and elegant, but a little crooked too, rimmed with blood under the nails. He sucks on his thumb. He spits the water out.

He feels that itch again, even if he’s just satisfied it.

He’s tired of killing rubes. He wants to cut down someone his own size. But he fears that he’s the best. His only true opponent is himself.

Not that he’s invincible, not that there aren’t stronger people out there. It’s just that, he knows how to get around all of them.

Fuck it, he’s going on the hunt tonight.

Dorsia is always booked. He can never get a fucking table. But he doesn’t need one. He slips past the maître d’ easily. What he’s looking for is a Wall Street dick whose hairline is receding _juuuust_ enough for him to be thinking about settling down with the girlfriend he constantly cheats on. Yeah, that fucker. Five likes to cut them down in their prime.

And wouldn’t you know it? Second table on the left, guy whose watch weighs down his wrist like handcuffs. He’s telling a much younger chesty redhead he definitely just met that actually, it wasn’t Marie Antoinette who said “let them eat cake”. And she nods like she actually gives a fuck.

Five grins. Bingo.

In the spare-time between seconds he nicks the guy’s phone. He finds out all he needs to know.

Minutes later, he strolls towards their table and calls out his name with confident recognition.

“Paul! You wasted cunt, why didn’t you tell me you got a table at Dorsia? I heard you scored big with a premium on those callable bonds. Bet you’re feeling good about yourself.”

Paul’s face is an interesting display of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he immediately recognizes Wall Street speak, right down to the brashly affectionate name-calling. But on the other hand, he can’t, for the life of him, pin down this cocky kid who looks fresh out of college. But he’s too embarrassed to admit he can’t place him. He must be one of the puppies on the ground floor who like to rub elbows with senior analysts.

So Paul grins and lifts his glass. “You know it.”

Lucky for him, the kid introduces himself to his lady friend.

“Name’s Harold, but everyone calls me Hal. Are you even legal, sweetheart?”

The redhead titters coyly. It’s such a funny joke, how much shit these corporate cockheads get away with.

Five is on auto-pilot. He charms them with nonsense. He speaks their language without really knowing what the words mean, but he’s a pro. There’s something really easy about impersonating no one. How old is he? He forgets. Sometimes, he thinks he’s lived forever. He drinks expensive wine on Paul’s tab. By the end of dinner, he’s secured an invitation to his loft. There’s talk of a threesome, but only if ‘Christie’ is cool with it. And wouldn’t you know it, she is.

Five smiles. Yeah, he likes to play with his food.

Christie says she doesn’t like this game, but Five promises it’ll be fun.

She’s probably feeling vulnerable, stripped down to her panties, propped up against the wall for their pleasure. She’s also stupendously drunk, so that helps. Five brings the knives from the kitchen. Paul has snorted a fuck-full of coke, enough to think this is the best night ever.

Five wonders if the dumbass might just kill her by mistake.

But no, he’s got terrible eye-to-hand coordination. Admittedly, anyone with this many drugs in his bloodstream would miss. The knives land haphazardly around Christie. The big cleaver even breaks the glass of a small artisanal coffee table. The shards look like a pitiful meteor shower. Christie laughs and cries in manic relief, make-up caking her cheeks.

Paul cranks up the volume and one of those tone-deaf Ariana Grande song blasts from the speakers. Five wrinkles his nose. That’s why he always brings his own playlist. He connects the speakers to his phone. He then instructs Paul to go clean Christie up. And Paul crawls towards his unsuspecting prey and pins her down on the carpet and licks her mascara cheeks and then puts her breasts in his mouth and pretends to maul them, which makes her giggle and protest because really, all she wants to do is go to sleep.

Five picks up the hefty cleaver. A familiar song comes on the playlist. One of his favorites.

“You kids like Phil Collins? This one’s “Sussudio”. A great song. What’s _really_ great about it is you can feel every synth beat being drilled into your skull. And the second great thing about it is that it has no real meaning. Sussudio is the made-up name of a made-up girl Collins liked. An amalgamation of women, a distillation of many. But she, as an individual, never existed. Isn’t that neat?”

He slits Paul’s throat just as he’s getting ready to enter Christie.

The girl whelps underneath him. Blood gets in her mouth and eyes. It chokes her screams.

“I mean, if I had to travel back to a decade, I wouldn’t necessarily choose the 80s, but I wouldn’t kick it out of bed, you know what I mean?”

Christie tries to get away from him, but Five plunges the knife into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat.

He notes with some humor that Paul still has an erection. He thinks, better to be killed by him than fucked by Paul.

But maybe next time he’ll let this Christie escape. After all, he can go back and do it over and over again, as many times as he needs to.

In his post-kill euphoria, he doesn’t hear the key in the lock, doesn’t hear the small footsteps.

But he does hear the tiny gasp. He turns around, half of his face sprayed red.

A petite woman wearing a black trench coat stands in the hallway, mouth agape. She’s dropped both her bag and her violin case. 

_So_ , Five thinks, _this must be the real girlfriend._

She stands there for a good, long minute, staring at the carnage.

Five could’ve already disappeared on her, but something about this encounter sort of tickles his fancy. It’s kind of like a melodrama. The wronged girlfriend, the double murder. She’ll probably be the number one suspect when the police investigate.

Five does have to give Paul some credit. This tiny woman doesn’t look like a prestige girlfriend or future trophy wife. She looks almost nondescript, although there is a dignity about her, a strange kind of solitude. She must be an only child. Her features are drawn, ascetic, even a little repellant, but altogether lovely. She will probably look lovelier dead.

She takes a step forward, finally coming closer.

Her hands are shaking. She takes out her phone from her pocket.

Five heaves a sigh. He thought she’d be smarter than that. In a quick flash he’s at her side and has wrenched the device from her hand.

The girlfriend’s mouth opens wordlessly.

“H-how –”

“This is so you’ll know that if you run, I’ll catch you. So, how about you take off that coat and get comfortable?”

She looks towards the door. Then back at him. Her hands part the folds of her coat. She’s wearing a modest black number underneath. Something you wear in church or at a special venue. Concert?

Five looks down at the violin case. “You play?”

She nods shakily.

“Are you any good?”

She shakes her head.

He laughs. “Let’s see then.”

He bends down and opens the case.

“D-don’t,” she begs.

The violin looks worn with age, but well-loved. It must be priceless to her. He picks up the bow. He runs his thumb across the blade and the skin almost breaks. Oh yes, the sharpness is quite lethal. Perfect for what he’s about to do. And the young woman can see it in his eyes. Something in her hits a wall because instead of cowering in fear she glares at him. And bares her teeth.

“Don’t touch my _violin_!”

He didn’t expect such a strong hurricane of a voice to come from someone so small.

It’s not a metaphor.

He’s quite literally hurled into the air, the high pitched sounds filling the room with glimmering vibrations, like circles widening on the water’s surface. She pins him to the opposite wall and every little part of him aches with sound. His ears bleed with the music of her voice.

When he can finally hear again, the song playing on the speakers is like a balm.

He coughs blood and stares at the tiny woman who just _did_ that.

The bow he was holding earlier flies into the air and stops just short of his throat, daring him to move.

She steps towards the center of the room, watching him.

Five pants.

The corners of his mouth lift.

Fuck. Is he dreaming? Is she real? Has he finally met someone worth killing?

Someone his own size?

He hopes it’s not the cocaine.

God, let it not be the cocaine.

She looks down at the murder spree on the floor. 

“He was cheating on me?” she asks softly.

“I mean…do you really have to ask?” Five drawls.

She looks up at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Five,” he says, as if compelled, as if he really needs her to know who he is. “My name is Five.”

“That’s not a name.”

“I know. Who are you?”

“Vanya,” she responds, equally compelled.

“That’s not really a name either.”

She shrugs. Her temporary calm is like a spell. She’s a tiny, bottled thing, unleashing power in unpredictable spurts. 

“Do you also work for the Commission?”

Vanya blinks. “What’s that?”

Five chuckles. “Oh, they’ll find you soon enough, if they haven’t already. People like us don’t go by unnoticed.”

“I do,” she counters. “I was doing fine until now.”

Five sizes her up. How did he miss her? How did he not scent her out? He’s found others before. But no one this strong. 

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Vanya glances sideways. “Why did you kill them?”

He lifts his chin and the bow slides closer to his jugular. He grins. “Guess it’s just how I’m made. I must be some kind of deranged serial killer.”

Vanya frowns. She looks like a kindly Mother Theresa who wants you to swallow your medicine. “You don’t seem deranged to me. You sound like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Five nods. “That’s exactly why I’m deranged. Most of humanity runs blind. I know where I’m going. And that makes me a little nuts.”

Vanya steps away from the pool of blood that has almost reached her flats.

“Am I going to have to kill you?” she asks, voice tremulous, but determined.

Five nudges his head at the speakers. “Do you recognize the song playing, Vanya?”

She shakes her head.

“That’s “Head Over Heels”, the classic 1985 hit by _Tears for Fears_. It’s one of the most misunderstood love songs of the twentieth century. You see, the singer has no clue why he’s in love. He’s _always_ head over heels, he says. The physicality is literal. He can’t put himself back together. The very state of love, he argues, is this fumbling acrobatics. If you know why you love, you’re not really in it.”

Vanya makes a face. “What are you talking about?”

“Just making conversation. Night cap?”

He could’ve been wrong about her, but he’s not.

He knew it the moment she took in the bloodbath without so much as a flinch.

She doesn’t slice his throat.

They stand at the kitchen island and share a bottle of wine, ice cold from the fridge.

Vanya eyes him warily.

“This Commission, will they track me down because you’re here?”

Five shrugs. “They might. Scratch that, they definitely will.”

“Could you – could you prevent that from happening? I think you owe me that much.”

Five smiles. “I’d have to kill every last one of them. Would you like me to do that for you, Vanya?”

Her eyelashes almost flutter. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Isn’t there another way?”

“Well, killing isn’t that effective anyway. These fuckers are like Hydra’s heads. They just keep coming back.”

Vanya folds her arms. “Great. So now I’m dealing with invincible time-traveling assassins. You know, I was hoping for a quiet night in. That’s why I came home early. I wanted to surprise Paul.”

“Ah. Sorry about that.” And well, he means it only insofar as he has spoiled her evening.

“I guess I had to find out sometime,” she mutters, staring at the floor.

“Well,” he says, sliding closer to her. “You don’t have to sound so glum. I mean yeah, these people can’t be squashed as easily as bugs, but they’re still just barely sentient creatures. You and I? We’re not even the people that squash them. We’re the gods that made them.”

Vanya looks at him from the corner of her eye. She smiles. “Wow, you’re so full of shit.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but I’m still right.”

“And…what do we do now?” she wonders, looking at the remains of the wine. She has no exit strategy here. No way of dealing with someone like him.

Luckily, he has just the answer.

“Oh… I think we should listen to what Nicole Kidman’s character says at the end of Stanley Kubrick's often underrated _Eyes Wide Shut_. You know, the closing line. Do you remember it?”

Vanya’s eyes narrow and darken. She remembers watching that movie when she was far too young to understand it. She doesn’t remember losing any innocence. There was never any.

She says, “I’ve never seen that movie.”

And he knows exactly what she means.

When he falls upon her, she’s not supine, not a victim, not even a woman. She’s just pure sound. He grabs the side of her jaw and drinks in her moonlit moans which seem to glow from within as he kisses the warmth of her throat.

He throws her on the kitchen island and he hitches up her dress with impatient fingers and he kneels down and puts his face between her thighs. She smells clean, freshly showered, pure. Exactly the kind of void he likes. It’s a shame, though, because his face is still a bloody mess. But he will do his best to clean it up.

He eats her out with feverish determination and his mouth on her cunt, worrying her clit, makes her call out to him in very disorderly music, the kind that makes his teeth rattle and his bones turn to dust.

He doesn’t know who exactly is eating whom, and maybe that’s the point about power.

Vanya cards her fingers through his fringe, but she doesn’t tug. She’s silky soft. She does not need to pull. Even her raised knee glides against his shirt like water. She can be gentle. She gives him drops of violence every time he makes her come and his whole body shudders with her audible pleasure.

Five can only think, _if I make her come again maybe she'll obliterate me._

So he does. And it's so fucking good. 

Better than the killing and the time-travel and the coke and the whole rigmarole of being alive. 

Still, he knows he can’t bury himself here forever.

Tomorrow, there’ll be hell to pay.

But fuck it, he has earned a little downtime.

This time, he wants to enjoy it. 


End file.
